


Citrine

by echolehane



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echolehane/pseuds/echolehane
Summary: A collection of femslash fics based around Hayley Kiyoko's EP, Citrine.





	1. Gravel To Tempo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my gay-ass fam](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+gay-ass+fam).



> Y'ALL I am not even done but my dear Sam encouraged me to post these even without having the fifth one written. It's a Christmas gift to my Gay Ass Fam, but pretty much a New Years present to anyone who reads. I hope y'all enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow Rosenberg is not gay. Not even a little. (Okay, maybe a little.)

It wasn’t that Willow was gay.

 

Of course not.

 

It was just that… the new girl was  _ really  _ pretty. Like, heart-stoppingly pretty. And she’d chosen Willow to sit with at lunch! If that wasn’t some sort of miracle, Willow didn’t know what was.

 

It wasn’t like she’d had these thoughts before. It wasn’t like she’d crushed on Susie Gray in fourth grade because her pigtails always sat  _ just right  _ and her smile was sweeter than a million Tootsie Rolls. It wasn’t Caroline Sanders that she sat next to in seventh grade English that had never really understood the concept of ‘personal space’, but it hadn’t bothered Willow because she smelled like cherries and that was really nice.

 

She wasn’t gay.

 

Her family was pretty strictly religious, and growing up like that had always sort of skewed Willow’s worldview just a little. Gay people weren’t exactly wrong. But they weren’t entirely right either. Were they? She wasn’t really sure. But if she was gay, then she had no idea how her father would take it. Or her mother! The only daughter of Ira Rosenberg, dating a girl? What an insane concept.

 

But it didn’t matter, because Willow wasn’t going to date girls.

 

Except, problem was, she kind of wanted to.

 

Maybe it would take some time for her to really acknowledge it. Maybe it would take some time before she could say it. Maybe it would take some time before she was really comfortable with it. But she was Willow Danielle Rosenberg. She was strong, she was independent, and she was brave.

  
She was also kinda gay.


	2. Pretty Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tara just thinks Buffy is really pretty. Okay?

The party wasn’t normally something Tara would have attended. It was busy, and it was crowded, but Faith had dragged her along anyway. Since Faith was her closest friend at college, Tara really didn’t have much choice other than tagging along to the house party. She didn’t know the person who owned the house, and she could only maybe name five of the partygoers. But still, she was here, and she was being Faith’s wingwoman. Whatever the hell that entailed.

 

“Your turn,” Faith nudged her elbow, careful not to bump either of their drinks. Tara’s was much fuller than Faith’s, but Faith was also two drinks ahead.

“What?” Tara turned to face her roommate, raising an eyebrow.

“Let’s find you someone. She looks cute,” Faith used the hand holding her cup to point to a girl across the room. She had long dark hair and a nice smile, but Tara shook her head in spite of that.

“I’m here as your wingwoman, not the other way around,” Tara said with a small smile.

“Nah, I’ve got my guy,” Faith winked over at a tall blonde by the fireplace. Tara couldn’t help but be proud that she was able to help her best friend land such a catch, but it’s not up to Faith to now find Tara a girl. That’s not how their friendship works. “What about that cute girl from English?”

“What?” Tara pretended to have no idea what Faith was talking about. To avoid answering, she sipped her drink and stared at the table.

“Don’t be stupid,” Faith leant away, eyes scanning the room for Tara’s crush. Tara wasn’t about to tell Faith that she’d already done the same thing upon their entrance to the room. Buffy was over by the window, talking with her best friend. Both are girls were Tara and Faith’s English class, and both were practically strangers to Tara. But the difference between them was that Buffy was… well, pretty would be far too simple a word to describe her, but it’s the first word that Tara could think of. Faith had been pestering her for weeks, ever since Tara mentioned her crush, to ask her out. Tara had been able to hold off so far, though.

 

“Go on, go say hi,” Faith pushed her, gently but enough to cause Tara to stumble a little. Or maybe that was the alcohol.

“No, I’m fine,” Tara regained her balance, leaning on the table between them.

“Go on,” Faith bumped her again, and Tara felt a little less resistance within herself as she stepped sideways. “Do it.”

Tara looked over at Buffy, practically glowing in the light from the lamp a few feet beside her. Pretty didn’t even begin to describe her. If Tara had the confidence, she’d walk right over there and tell Buffy how pretty she was. The trouble, in Tara’s eyes, was that from everything she’d seen and heard about Buffy, she was straight. As a board. Which was a problem when it came to asking her out. Or even talking to her. There wasn’t a chance.

“You don’t have to tell her she’s the moon or the sun shines out of her or some shit,” Faith took a gulp of her drink. “Just go say hi. Two letters. Easy.”

“Sure,” Tara rolled her eyes lightheartedly. “You can get any guy you want just by looking at them.”

“And you could get her.”

“Faith,” Tara cocked her head at her roommate, levelling her with a stare.

“Just go. Say hi. If you die, I’ll sing at your funeral,” Faith pushed her a third time, and Tara took a couple more steps. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just that she was kind of done with the admiring from afar. But Tara turned from Faith and started walking towards Buffy. As she was on her way, she noticed that Buffy’s friend – a pretty brunette with legs up to her eyes – walked away with two empty cups. Her heart pounded as she approached, each step feeling like she was walking through lead, but she kept going. When she got close enough to make eye contact, Buffy turned to look at her. It was in that moment that she could swear someone had smacked her in the chest with a sledgehammer.

 

“Hey,” Buffy grinned at her, as bright as the sun, and it made Tara’s stomach flip.

“H-Hi,” Tara replied, one side of her mouth quirking up in a smile.

“You’re Tara, right?” Buffy chirped, and Tara took a moment to get accustomed to the fact that Buffy knew her name. Knew  _ her. _

“Yeah,” she answered. “Buffy?” she clarified unnecessarily.

“You betcha,” the blonde bounced on her toes and nodded eagerly.

“You’re pretty,” Tara found the words spilling past her lips without her permission, and she wanted to take them back instantly. Who  _ says  _ that?

Buffy’s smile turned shy, and she glanced at the floor. In Tara’s opinion, it only made her look more gorgeous.

“Thanks,” she smiled back up at Tara, somewhat braver and more self-confident than before. “You’re actually pretty cute yourself.”

 

_ Well, would you look at that, _ Tara thought. 

 

Maybe this wasn’t going to be as hard as she’d imagined.

 


	3. One Bad Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy shows up in the middle of the night and asks something of Faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only M-rated chapter of the fic, and I'm really REALLY nervous about posting it. I hope it is alright. If smut isn't your thing, just stop reading once Rogue Faith breaks her chains.

 

I’m tempted to throw away the magazine I’m reading, but honestly, it’s the only half-decent source of entertainment around here, so I stop myself just in time. I really don’t give a damn about celebrities or what the ‘latest trend’ is. Really. But this was the most expensive magazine the store carried, so I figured it’d be worth swiping. Man, was I wrong. It’s probably the least trashy of all of them, though, so that’s probably a good thing. And there’s gossip there. Someone might look at me and not really think me one for it, but damn don’t I love hearing everyone’s secrets. I love getting involved in other people’s lives. So I still read. I  _ could  _ be reading something smart or stuffy like Giles wants, but hey, this is something to do. Because there’s really only so much daytime TV you can take before you wanna gouge out your own eyeballs.

 

I look up at the knock on the door, confused and wary. B sometimes drops by to remind me it’s my turn to patrol, but it’s too late for that. As if I’d ever forget anyway. It’s not like I’m the one with the busy life here. It’s just me, the slayage, and my trashy magazine.

 

I’m tempted again to throw the magazine on the bed as I get up, but that would make a lot of noise and that’s really not my aim here. I place it on the nightstand, swapping my grip to the stake I keep there. There haven’t been any vamps on the other side of the door yet, but given that this is Sunnydale, you can’t be too careful.

 

My Slayer sense is giving off its unique Buffy tingle, but just to be careful, I look through the peephople. I have to stand on my tiptoes to do it – they’re prejudiced against short people, apparently – and the mess of blonde hair confirms my suspicions. No way could that be anyone else.

“Hey B,” I say as I open the door. “Whatcha doin’?”

It’s obvious she’s fresh off patrol. Sweat sticks her hair to the back of her neck, and there’s a red flush from her cheeks all the way down into her shirt. I’ve got no idea why she’s here – or why she’s apparently still breathing fast – but my first instinct is to take advantage of her heightened state and just sweep her inside. Before I can even register, the sensible part of me (it’s small, but I do have it) reins the uncontrollable part in. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, especially around Buffy. It was hard at first, when I saw her like this after training, pupils wide and bottom lip caught between her teeth, but now it’s just habit. It’s like that part of me is controlled with rubber bands for reins. Sure, it gets a little out of control sometimes, but never goes very far.

“I need your help.”

“Vamp?” I would normally be tucking the stake in my hand into my pants to prep, but considering I’m currently only wearing underwear, that would be a bit difficult. There’s a pair of pants on the floor a few feet to my left, and I abandon Buffy in the doorway so I can get to them. I don’t really care about my state of dress all that much, but it’s not exactly practical to fight without pants, and that part of me has to win sometimes. Even though I can see Buffy’s eyes trailing up my legs and I would happily leave my pants off always if it meant she could look at me like that.

“No,” Buffy says quickly, and I turn back to face her, pants in my hand. I don’t move to put them on, though.

“What, then?” If there’s not a vamp problem, I can’t think of any reason for Buffy to be here straight after patrol, all hot and bothered. The rogue part of me starts shouting out very valid and very nice reasons as to why, but Sensible Faith tugs on the rubber reins and she’s back where she’s supposed to be in a moment. Still muttering suggestions under her breath, which I can’t blame her for.

 

“I-” Buffy begins, but stops herself by biting on her bottom lip. My eyebrow raises at the action, though I don’t even know that she realises what she’s done. “Do you remember what you said about slaying? How it makes you… hungry?”

Well, duh. A good slay will always leave you starving. And horny as hell, though we’re not going to mention that while Buffy’s standing here looking like that. Rogue Faith might get too many ideas.

“I haven’t got much, B,” I lie. It’s not that I’ve got more. I’ve just got… whatever’s less than ‘not much’. I’ve got exactly three apples, half a loaf of bread, and I think I’ve got some peanut butter. “I might be able to find you something, though.”

“No-” she says, cutting herself off again by thinning her lips into a line. It’s frustrating how she can’t manage to get out a full sentence, but then again, Buffy’s frustrating about 90% of the time, so that’s nothing new. “The other thing.”

_ What? _

“Faith, I… with Angel… and I can’t,” she runs her hand through her hair, messing it up even further. Her hair never looks messy, so this has to be a real issue. If she’d only finish a damn thought, I might be able to help out. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I step back into the room without thinking, and gesture to my space. It’s not exactly much, but the room feels exponentially smaller with two people in it. It doesn’t help that Buffy’s basically a human tornado now, and I’d think it was cute if I wasn’t so damn confused.

 

“What’s up, B?” I step around her and lock the door out of habit. Well, it’s more than habit. It’s just plain safety. I mean, I  _ could  _ handle myself if someone broke into the room in the middle of the night. But I really wouldn’t want to.

“I need-” Buffy’s pacing now, clearly agitated, and it’s making me kinda dizzy. I dodge her, too over her half-finished sentences to even try and compute what she’s saying, and climb onto the bed. Settling myself against the wall, I watch her pace around the bed. She starts her thought again, like five times, but never gets past the first syllable.

“What?” I prompt again. I’m tempted to throw a pillow at her to get her to stop moving. I’m hungry. I’m exhausted. I’m still sore from battling one stubborn vamp last night. I want to nap, or go back to reading my trashy magazine. I don’t have the mental capacity to be deciphering Buffyspeak right now.

“I need-” she starts again, and I’m already reaching for the pillow beside me when her gaze causes me to stop. Even from across the room, I can tell her pupils are wide and dark, darker than I’ve ever seen them. Which is stupid anyway, because pupils are black and they can’t get any blacker.

“You.”

 

Oh.

 

Holy shit.

“What?” I’m confused, turned on and very conflicted all at the same time. Rogue Faith starts cheering, straining against her rubber chains, but she springs back at the last second. Sensible Faith side-eyes her. I have no idea what’s going on, but this can’t be the real Buffy. This has to be a dream.

 

Buffy rests one knee on the end of the bed, and I think my heart stops. Can hearts do that? I mean, I know they can stop, but can they stop and leave you still alive? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what just happened. But then, maybe not. Because there’s no way this is real life. No way Little Miss Tight Ass would come in here and tell me she wants me. Still, Rogue Faith struggles against her restraints, and I feel the bands stretching just a little further this time, just a little closer to breaking.

“Please, Faith. I don’t want to think,” her tone’s simple as always, but the words cause desire to drip down my spine and pool somewhere in my lower belly. “I just want to feel.”

 

What. The. Fuck.

 

Before I can even work out what’s happening, Buffy’s launched herself at me, and I’m grateful for Slayer reflexes because I catch her before she sends both of us through the flimsy motel room wall. I’m holding her by her shoulders, body inches from mine, and I have about a half second to look into her eyes before she crushes her lips to mine. Buffy kisses like she slays, with passion and raw energy, but enough precision and dexterity to make your heart stop. Again. Her tongue doesn’t even hesitate before it’s slipping into my mouth and claiming it.

 

Rogue Faith rears up and, with one final burst of energy, breaks her rubber bands clean in two.

 

I push back against Buffy so hard she lands on her back on the bed, our mouths still fused together. She squirms a little, her pants rubbing against the bare skin of my legs, and I have to bite back a growl. She tastes like sweat and vanilla and the colour pink, and somewhere in me Sensible Faith is saying this is a Bad Idea and I should under no circumstances know what Buffy tastes like. I shouldn’t know that if I swipe my tongue across the roof of her mouth, she’ll make the most adorable moan in response. I shouldn’t know that, if I grip her hip tightly, her back arches and presses her chest into mine. I should  _ not  _ know these things.

 

Rogue Faith is too busy cheering to actually contribute anything helpful.

 

Buffy’s hands are in my hair, tugging at my scalp, and I can’t help the groan deep in my throat. Her legs wind around my hips, tugging me even closer and grinding my pelvis into hers, and she lets out an identical sound.

She pulls away, letting her head fall back onto the pillows as she meets my gaze.

“Please,” she whispers. I have no idea what she’s asking, but I would give her anything right now. I would sell my soul in this moment. It might only just be tonight. I might only have her here, like this, knowing all these things, for just tonight. But I’m happy enough with that.

 

Buffy wiggles again underneath me, and her hands slip from my hair to tug at the hem of her own shirt. I pick up on the hint, gripping the fabric and whipping it over her head in one swift motion. It works so easily, so beautifully, as only two Slayers can. I have to catch my breath the next second, because apparently Buffy’s decided not to wear a bra tonight, and  _ damn. _

 

Buffy’s boobs are the most perfect I’ve ever seen. I may not have seen a lot, but I’ve seen my fair share. And these are, hands down, the best. I’m kind of in awe, but I let Rogue Faith take over and raise a hand to cup one breast, brushing the pad of my thumb against the taut pink peak. Buffy’s back arches, pushing herself harder against my hand, and I reflexively squeeze.

“Please,” she whispers roughly, and I’m just as helpless as the last time she said that. Keeping one hand on her breast, the other finds its way to her ass, pushing her closer to me. I drop my head to her neck, knowing there’s just got to be a spot somewhere that drives her wild. The combination of everything has Buffy’s squirming, a soft mewl coming from her lips as I bite down on her pulse point. God, she is perfect.

 

I have no idea why Buffy’s ended up here, right now, in my bed. But I can’t say I’m mad about it. I’m definitely not mad about the way she scratches at my back, hands slipping underneath my shirt to rake her short nails along my shoulders. The pain only spurs me further, and I don’t have time to stop myself from moaning against her collarbone.

 

I like to pride myself on being a good bed companion. I know I’m good. I know I can make people feel good. I know I can read people well enough to know what they want before they even want it. Not that Buffy’s being shy about what she wants, though. Her pelvis is arching up towards mine, hips grinding rhythmically against my waist, almost desperately.

“Please,” she says after my mouth’s been on her breast, teasing the most delicious moans from her. Her body is a bowstring right now, and I’m not sure whether she came here like that, if it’s from patrol, or just me. My ego says take the latter, practicality says it’s the second. I settle for somewhere in the middle, deciding that playing around is not the best option right now. Not when she’s already using the Slayer strength on me, pulling me against her with force no human could ever possess. It’s hot as fuck, honestly.

 

I let my hand work its way into her underwear – something pink and frilly and so damn Buffy – and pull my hips back enough to give me some room to work. I hesitate just a fraction of a second too long, apparently, because Buffy releases my hair and uses that freed hand to push my wrist down.

 

Suddenly I’m sinking my fingers into her warm heat and  _ god  _ I could just about melt right here. She moves a little, grinding herself onto my hand and groaning impatiently. Slowly, I pull my fingers out, then push them back in. Slayers, as I’ve found out, have incredible muscles down there. Muscles people could never dream of. And it’s so tight.

“Oh, god,” Buffy’s eyes are closed as she speaks her words towards the ceiling, back bowing as she pushes her hips against my fingers. “Please.”

 

There’s that damn word again.

 

I thrust my fingers inside her again, revelling in the reaction it causes, before upping the pace. I can make her come again later.  _ I  _ can come later. Right now, she needs this. I curl the tips of my fingers and by this point, she’s incoherent. Her words have turned into a long string of moans that’s part curse, part ‘oh God’ and part pure animal. It’s a noise I could definitely get used to hearing. I don’t care if it’s only tonight, I’m going to make her make those sounds until she can’t make them anymore.

 

I’m not sure how long it takes, but it feels like mere seconds before I’m pushing my thumb into  _ just the right spot  _ and she comes apart.

 

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Granted, I haven’t seen a lot worthy of praise. But Buffy is more. So much more.

 

She clamps down around my fingers, back seizing up and her face morphing into an expression of pure bliss. And the best thing?

 

It’s  _ my  _ name she cries.

 

It might just be tonight. It might just be this. But whatever happens, I’m going to have that.


	4. Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where I leave you. Sitting in a palace, covered in gold, inside my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the whiplash from the last chapter to this one, y'all.

The warm breeze lifts Willow’s hair up, whipping a few stray tendrils into her face and forcing her to close her eyes. It’s hard, being here. Always is. She can’t think of one year where it’s been easy, where her heart hasn’t felt like it’s ripping in two just by being at the edge.

The crater looms in front of her, gaping and empty as always, and she brushes her hair out of her eyes so she can open them and look into it. This is where her friends, her  _ family  _ made their last stand. Well, somewhere here. Somewhere in this giant hole is everything she remembers, everything she loved. Her school, her home, her college.

 

Her Tara.

The visit to the crater for Tara’s birthday is one she’s made every year without fail, since the collapse. Since the final few managed to escape, racing off towards the Cleveland Hellmouth without so much as a second thought. They were all hurting. For Anya, for Spike, for all the potentials lost in their last battle. But Willow couldn’t help thinking of Tara. There was going to be no more visiting her grave to lay flowers, no more talking to her headstone when she missed her so much it was hard to breathe.

 

This was the next best thing she could think of.

 

The flowers in her hand bend a little as the breeze brushes past them again, and Willow looks down at them. The paper around them rustles quietly, and it’s the only sound for miles. At least, to her.

 

Tara’s face dances behind her eyes. She’s smiling. Laughing. Singing like an angel. Dancing like a dork. She’s standing, sitting, lying down. The images blur together, and Willow can’t tell if that’s because her eyes are welling up or if it’s because they’re rushing through her brain so fast it’s hard to capture just one.

 

She refuses to think of any bad moments here. Here is their space. It’s her special Tara-spot. Where she thinks of every moment Tara smiled. Every moment she smiled because of Tara. It’s the only place in the world that is untainted, and she wants to keep it special.

 

Willow bends down, laying the flowers on the dirty ground. It seems too harsh to put them here, but there’s not really many other options for her. Tara deserves more than flowers placed on dirt. She deserves a golden throne, only the most gorgeous flowers laid at her feet, on the golden floor. But this is all she can manage.

 

Last night, she tried to contact Tara. She’d heard there was a plane where the living could contact the dead. Their loved ones. And so she’d tried. It was the most bittersweet thing she thinks she’s ever experience. The world was a blur, and tinted golden, though Willow’s still not sure whether that’s just how it was, or if it was Tara’s smile that made it so. She’d been unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the love of her life. All Tara had done was smile her gorgeous, lopsided smile, stroll over, and stroke Willow’s cheek. Even now, Willow’s not sure whether that was all she could do, or all she let herself do, but either way, she’s not sure she wants to go back. Seeing Tara again… God, it was the most conflicted she’d felt since her first dilemma with Tara and Oz. She would give anything to be able to lay eyes on her girl once more. But being there, not being able to speak to her, not being able to touch her… It was torture. And not something she wants to relive anytime soon.

 

As Willow straightens up, the breeze kicks up a notch. The redhead whips around, always on high alert. Is there someone here? Some _ thing _ ? It happens each year, every time she puts down her flowers. Part of her thinks, hope,  _ wishes  _ it is Tara’s spirit, kissing her goodbye again. And, as per tradition, Willow feels the telltale brush against her cheek. Sceptics would tell her it was just her hair and she wasn’t aware of it. She knows better. It’s Tara, kissing her one last time. 

 

Willow kisses her palm in return, throwing the kiss into the crater afterwards.

 

“Happy birthday, baby,” her voice is rough, and she swallows once in an attempt to stop it from cracking. “I love you.”

 


End file.
